Be Bop A Lula
by w00tsit
Summary: Set in 1956. Stiles runs into car trouble and meets a mechanic named Derek who sucks him into a world of confusion and self-doubt. Teenage romance isn't all that easy when it has to be kept a secret from those who would use it against you. Stiles is faced with change, guilt, and huge decisions that could ruin him. Warnings: historically-accurate homophobia, racism and misogyny.
1. Prologue

It all starts when Stiles Stilinski drives into school on the 13th of April 1956. He should have known that something would happen that day. It was a Friday, and not only do strange and unfortunate things seem to always happen to him on Fridays, this was a Friday the thirteenth - and every suspicious person in the world knows that 13 is an unlucky number. So add that number and that day and you have hell for one Stiles Stilinski, 17 years old and living in Beacon Hills California.

"_Dang_!" Someone shouted across the car park.

Stiles' tired Sedan ground to a halt in the outlined parking space, and cut out with a rumble and bang. In the rear-view mirror it was clear to see the black smoke rising in heavy, frightening clouds from the Ford's exhaust. Stiles looked at it with a mixture of disdain and true sadness. His hands on the steering wheel stroked soothingly over the plastic of the car's interior. "It's okay baby," he mumbled, "I'll see you right."

A thump on his window startled him, and he jolted to see his best – well, his only – friend staring at him with wide, watering eyes. With a big sigh Stiles grabbed the door handle, tugged, and opened it to the pungent, fume-filled air outside. A cacophony of coughing met his ears.

"Stiles, what happened to your ride?" Scott asked, his throat tight.

"Baby's just having some trouble today, aint'cha, doll?" Stiles replied, and closed the door softly before sliding his keys into the door and locking it.

"_Some_ trouble?" Scott replied, disbelief tainting his tone.

"Yeah, she'll be all right by tomorrow."

Stiles headed to the back of the car to open the boot and grab his bag. Scott, very cleverly, stayed put rather than following him into what had to be toxic air.

"You're taking her to a shop?" Scott asked after him, hearing the click of the boot opening, a rustle, and then the close.

"To a shop?" Stiles asked, as he appeared from the dissipating smoke with his book bag in hand and a hand waving the fumes from his face. "And let some cat get their fingers all over her? No way!" He slung his bag over one shoulder and looked at Scott as if to show that he truly thought him crazy for even suggesting such a thing. Like any sane person, Scott was unimpressed.

"Your ride is obviously broken. You should get her seen."

"Yeah, but I just don't want her to get hurt." Stiles replied, and they started their trudge towards the school building.

"She's already 'hurt'." Scott replied with a laugh in his voice. Since Stiles had got his ride about three months ago he had been strangely over-protective of it, almost as if it were his sweetheart rather than his car.

"_And_ I don't want to spend all of my hard-earned money on a bad job." Stiles added, as he gave a starry eyed gaze at his long-standing crush Lydia Martin, who looked just as _flawless_ as ever.

Scott sighed and shook his head, bringing up one hand to keep his hair in shape. "Well, what if I told you that not ever car shop is like the one that your dad went to?"

"...Then I'd be interested." Stiles said cautiously. Scott smiled.

"Good. There's this garage out on the outskirts of town. On Mulberry Lane – you know it?"

"Uh, _no._" Stiles said as they turned onto a crowded corridor, mustard yellow lockers covering the walls. Two of them belonged Scott and Stiles.

"Well it's sweet." Scott said, and then his eyes lit up and got all gooey and _oh_, thought Stiles, because he knew that look. It was the look Scott got just before he wandered off to his girlfriend Allison. And yeah, there he goes.

Honestly, Stiles didn't quite understand it, but then again he's never had a broad himself, just pined over Lydia for as long as he can remember. Maybe they secreted something that kept guys like Scott clinging to them for dear life. With a shake of his head, Stiles shouted a goodbye to Scott that he doubted was paid any attention, and went to his locker alone.

Later in the day, in Chemistry (which included a pop quiz – what did Stiles say about Fridays being unlucky?) Scott drew a sketchy map with instructions on how to get to Deaton's Garage before getting a detention for not paying attention, and Stiles spent the rest of the school hours attempting to get Lydia's attention. All in all it was a normal day.

It got less normal after he had coaxed his car down Mulberry Lane to give out just outside of Deaton's.


	2. Chapter 1

Deaton's Garage was a small building with a run-down exterior and a large pick-up truck parked outside. A shiny motorcycle was parked beside it and a gutless car sitting on bricks stood far inside the garage. Music crackled from a wireless inside the building, and cigarette smoke wafted in clouds from the lips of a portly man who watched the black fumes pouring from Stiles' car with his eyebrows raised. Stiles looked bleakly at the peeling paint as he stepped out of his ride and tentatively walked towards the gaping mouth of the garage. Before he could reach it a dark-skinned man stepped out in overalls, wiping it his exposed forearm with a clean cloth.

"Can I help you?" He asked.

"Uhh yeah. My car's not so hot and I was wondering what I could uh...get done for her?" Stiles asked, and smiled becomingly.

"Okay, bring her in and we'll take a look." The man said, and Stiles nodded before going back to his car, and attempting to push it into the garage. The portly man who had stood outside of the building smashed his cigarette on the wall and walked over to help. With difficulty they manoeuvred the sedan into the shade of the garage and into the space between a rack of tools and two unfolded metal chairs housing a man in his early twenties who raked his eyes over the car as it rolled into place.

The black man placed a hand on the car's bonnet and passed a long glance over the body. He nodded slightly. The man in the chair got up and walked over to the car, placing his oily fingers on the join of windscreen to bonnet. Stiles winced, and then looked at the man with a frown. He was about three inches taller than Stiles and reeked of trouble. Perhaps it was that he was unshaven, perhaps it was that Stiles could clearly see the cigarettes and matchbox in the rolled up sleeves of his t-shirt, perhaps it was the high, black duck's tail he wore, or the sneaking suspicion that that motorcycle outside belonged to him, or maybe it was the bulging muscles, maybe it was even the deep-down memory of this man being expelled from the school – but whatever it was something about the guy made Stiles want to instinctively step back, and take his baby back too because she was important.

"Okay," The black man finally said with pursed lips, and walked over to Stiles, the intimidating guy between them stepping back. "I'm Deaton." Said the black man, and he held out his hand. For a moment Stiles stood shocked. A black man with his own car shop was unheard of. So, incidentally, was shaking hands with one. Deaton looked at Stiles expectantly until he felt that he had to reach out a hand and give him that skin (1). Deaton's grip was firm and business like, and so very familiar for something that should have, according to law and society, been so foreign.

"I'm Stiles Stilinski." Stiles said stiffly. Deaton was sucking his teeth and staring at Stiles in a rather uncomfortable manner.

"We'll have Derek take a look at her, see what we can do." He finally said, and the intimidating man nodded and walked off toward the tool rack. Stiles nodded awkwardly.

"Okay," He said weakly.

"You can take a seat over there." Deaton said, motioning to the chairs that Derek had been sitting at as Stiles rolled in his baby.

With a thin smile Stiles broke away and gingerly sat on a cool chair next to the wireless, which hummed on the sound of the disk jockey announcing the next track, and watched tensely as Derek knelt on the ground and fixed a jack underneath. And he watched. And he watched. And finally got too bored and confused and _he did not like being left out of what was happening to his baby_ so he cleared his throat and asked,

"Hey, didn't you go to my school?"

Derek paused in his inspection of the guts of Stiles' car under the popped bonnet.

"Maybe." He replied curtly, and got back to unscrewing something Stiles hoped wasn't too important.

"Beacon Hills High. Because you look kinda familiar. Or maybe it's just seen you around because hey, it ain't a big town." And there he went. It was common knowledge amongst his friends – and by that he meant knowledge only to Scott – that when Stiles started talking because he was bored, or nervous, or some horrendous mixture of the two such as now, there was no stopping him. "And do you ever go to _Shakey's_? 'Cause it's where I work. But to be honest I only work there because I wanted to see Lydia Martin outside of school but I can't get her to a flick with me. I mean I would totally like to go steady with her, you know? But she keeps blowing me off for this cat Jackson. But yeah, _Shakey's_ is just a complete coolsville and stuff and always crazy busy, so you might have been there."

At this point Derek lets out a huff of air and tenses his jaw three times in succession so the muscle jumps.

"Your air filter is busted." He said quickly before Stiles could start again, and in one hand he held up what looked like a thick, black brick.

"Don't you mean clogged?" Stiles said, because he knew maybe one or two things about cars.

"I mean _busted_." Derek said as he came closer and gave Stiles a closer look. And yeah, Stiles had no idea what that was supposed to look like, but it didn't look good at all as it was – all black and welded together with large blocks of grit between the slats.

"Oh. Can you fix it?" Stiles asked.

Derek shook his head. "It needs a spanking new one. And that's not all. That tank (2) of yours is _old_."

"Hey, she ain't a tank!" Stiles said, because his baby was the sweetest ride ever and this Derek guy obviously had no sense at all if he couldn't see that.

Derek looked down at Stiles inappreciatively. "Look, there's nothing we can do but replace it, but we're all out. It'll be a weeks wait."

"A week! But I have to get to school!" Stiles cried, outraged. Jeesh, Scott had said this place was good but it was just turning out to be creepy and slow.

"Can't you get a ride with a friend or parent?" Derek said, and he was obviously unimpressed with Stiles' reaction. Stiles scoffed a little, because really – pop was always working or sleeping or getting some well-deserved rest for that hip of his, and Scott would be way too busy playing back seat bingo (3)

with Allison to drive safely or make Stiles feel anything other than welcome and comfortable in his presence. And he meant it, you know – Allison didn't just wear her neck-ties for fashion.

"No." He eventually said moodily.

There was a pregnant pause between them as Stiles attempted to face the reality that would be cycling to school every day.

"I can take you." Derek finally said, without a trace of tiredness or anger in his tone, and one eyebrow raised in welcome. Stiles looked at him like he had lost his marbles.

"Really?" He asked, a little sarcastically.

"Yeah. I can drop you back home, too." He ran a hand over his sculpted coiffure.

Stiles sat in a bit of a daze for a moment, mind blank. Then, "You have a car?"

"Not exactly. I have a Harley." Derek replied, and there was a smirk in his voice that was unmissable. So, that motorcycle outside did belong to him. Dangerous...Cool.

"Cool," He said, a little breathless, "Okay. That's...That's totally boss."

This time the smirk wasn't just in Derek's voice. "Right. Give me a moment."

"Oh, yeah! I mean, I ain't got my heels on fire!" (4) Stiles called out after Derek's retreating back.

Derek stuttered in his steps, and then started walking again.

The only thought running through Stiles' mind was that this was gonna be crazy.

About two or three minutes later Derek came out of a side room with cleaner hands, a clean shirt and jacket on, and a cigarette between his lips, lighting it on a zippo. Stiles searched for a helmet or two, but there were none he could see. And helmets are hard to hide.

"Uh, helmet?" He asked, and all of a sudden Derek was very much Mr Intimidating again with one quirked eyebrow and a cig between his lips.

"Why, you square?" He asked, blueish smoke billowing from his lips.

Stiles shook his head vigorously.

"Don't fall off and you won't get hurt." Derek said, and then started towards the bike outside. It had started to drizzle and turn dark. Suddenly much more nervous, Stiles quickly grabbed his bag from the boot of his car and followed.

The seat wet slightly wet with rainwater, and Derek was already sitting astride it with his hands firmly on the handles. Stiles eyed the small gap at the end of the seat.

"Get on." Derek said with a flick of his head. Hoisting the bag securely over his torso, Stiles awkwardly clambered onto the edge of the seat. "Hold on." Derek commanded, and Stiles looked around wildly for what he was supposed to hold on _to_ before the kickstand was up and suddenly there was a roar underneath him accompanied with exhaust and vibration and all he could do was snap his arms around Derek's torso, bring his feet up and hold on for dear life as they waddled backwards and then sped forwards onto the road.

"Where do you live?" Derek asked loudly over the roar of the engine."

"Pecker Street." Stiles replied. "And did you go to Beacon Hills?" He tacked on the end, because yeah, definitely nervous now.

"Yeah, before they kicked me out."

Stiles blanched, gripped tighter, and before he knew it they were screaming down roads, closer and closer to his house.

* * *

A/N.

1- _Give me that skin_ – shake hands

2- _Tank_ – big car driven by the older generation. Not a cool car.

3- _Back Seat Bingo –_ necking in a car.

4- _Heels on Fire –_ (Kookie Talk) in a hurry


	3. Chapter 2

When they arrived at the house, Stiles all but fell off of Derek's ride and onto the pavement, and Derek surveyed him blankly.

"I'll bring you a helmet Monday morning. At eight."

To be perfectly honest, Stiles was seriously considering telling him no, and hoping that he would be able to live through a ride in the back of Scott's Buick Roadmaster whilst listening to the goopy words he swaps with Allison – but there was something about an angry or annoyed Derek that he felt he needed to avoid. And hey, Derek was swimming in the cool pool. Who knows, maybe this would be his ticket for getting Lydia's attention. No cat could deny that Derek's motorcycle was crazy impressive.

"Okay." He finally said, his hands resting on his knees as he leant over. Derek nodded at him with a smirk curled on his lips and the muscle in his jaw jumping. And then in possibly the most cool way possible he kicked off and rode away with a roar, his leather jacket bulging with air. Stiles looked after him with a mixture of admiration and discomfort.

That night was unsettling for a number of reasons. One, his father had got tangled up in the dispersing of gangs of thugs that had been loitering around and scaring old ladies – which he had only found out after a call to the phone in the hallway warning him that Sheriff Stilinski would be late home. Two, there was nothing to eat but cold ham and potatoes – which he guzzled down at a rate of nots. Three, Stiles was aware that he had toward the lunch and dinner shift at _Shakey's_ tomorrow, and Four there was a mixture of apprehension and excitement stewing in his gut that put him constantly on edge. But who could blame him? Monday was going to be _boss._

But before Stiles could impress and probably terrorise the school and Lydia he had to face the weekend, which dragged slowly. Work had been stiflingly busy, which was a real drag after he had spent a good thirty minutes walking there in a shower of rain. He spent all of his time frying up burgers or serving shakes or wiping down sticky linoleum tables. Sunday he spent most of the day sleeping off the horror that had been work, pacing, and listening to Gene Vincent and His Blue Caps(*). By the evening all he could think to do to keep himself from blowing his top was the homework he had due. He bent over a notepad and textbook on the humid Sunday evening with his fountain pen slippy between his sweaty fingers, and ink smudging across his completed equations. Now that the long and tiresome weekend was almost over the nervousness and outright fear of death was creeping it's way back into Stiles' gut.

There were all sorts of things that could go wrong: there could be an accident on the road, the helmet Derek's bringing might not fit or could be broken already, he could be laughed at for going from driving into school in his 40s ford Sedan in a Varsity Jacket to clinging on to the back of a greaser on his motorcycle, he could be punished for knowing Derek – ex-school delinquent. Worst of all, Lydia could laugh at him, or – _God_ –even worse than that; completely ignore him. Didn't Jackson have a cherry, after all?(1) What was clinging to the back of a guy with a bad-boy attitude going to do for him in the face of _that_?

But to hell with it – it was already too late. Derek was picking him up tomorrow and unless he wanted to cycle to school on his bike that hadn't truly been used for years and face an angry Greaser – _or leave an angry Greaser looking after his baby –_ there was no way to avoid that. He couldn't even decide to live through a drive with Scott and Allison now it was so late to call. His stomach flipped with nerves and Stiles realised that he had been doing the last three equations wrong.

He managed to finish them before he had to cook dinner, the kitchen having become strangely familiar to him over the last few years. This meal was much more substantial that the ham and potatoes he had choked down on Friday or the fries and shake he had ordered from work after his shift was over, and it was when he finished the last piece of his steak that the door closed with a click and the hat stand rattled on the uneven floorboards, alerting him to his pa's arrival.

"Stiles?"

"'M in here." He replied, and as his father came into the doorway looking exhausted and grateful and worn he managed a smile that stifled the worry in his gut. "Hi, daddy-o."

"Hey kid." Stiles' pa said with an answering smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes, and managed to limp into the kitchen and slump down into a chair across the table with a sigh of relief.

"Tough day?"

Sheriff Stilinski gave a short smile that said all, and a small nod, and then quickly changed the subject. He could be like that sometimes – as if for all Stiles had been through he felt it best to guard his innocence from the horrors of the petty crimes of vandalism and loitering. "Where's your car?"

"Oh, she's in the shop," Stiles said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I was just cruising on Thursday night and she jammed and there was smoke and... It was pretty awful."

"She isn't going to cost you much, is she? Because I could help pay." His pa was already reaching for the wallet he kept in his pocket with stiff and jerky movements.

"No, no!" Stiles replied with gargantuan gestures using his arms, "Really, pa, it's fine."

The Sheriff nodded with a small smile and straightened back out with a groan. "you couldn't get me my aspirin, could you son?"

There was this little flutter of panic in Stiles' chest at that – like there always was when The Wound was brought up in conversation – and he stumbled over himself to grab the bottle from the cutlery drawer where it was kept as a constant reminder for his usually forgetful father. After the pills were swallowed dry Stiles found himself cooking something up as a late-night supper for his father despite his tiredness, if only so that he could spend some more time with his him. By the time he finally squirmed under the blankets of his bed little shocks of tiredness and wakefulness trembled through his body with each movement, and he sank quickly into sleep with barely a spare thought for the terrifying journey he would undertake the next morning. Or rather, later that day.

Of course, the not-so wonderful thing about sentimental moments the last long into the night is that they tend to leave the next morning out of the equation. Unfortunately, this didn't bode well for Stiles. Not at all.

It was the third shrill ring that did it. Had him tumbling out of his bed in a tangle of knitted blankets onto the unforgiving floor. There was a fuzzy post-sleep haze lying over his mind and blearing up his vision, underlined with a sharp sense of panic because _wasn't it Monday?_ And _oh shit he didn't turn on his alarm_.

Three loud bangs on the door motivated him to turn the panic into movement and at the sound of them Stiles was scrambling up, pulling his big toe out of a hole in the knit of the blanket and bolting down the corridor, his feet on the floor like thunder. A figure loomed in the frosted glass of the door and Stiles wrenched it open to meet face to face with Derek who had a face like doom and the end of Stiles' life. In his head, Stiles screamed a few choice words.

"Sorry!" He blurted and stepped back for Derek to come inside. "I'm so sorry, I overslept and I'll just get ready right now."

Derek strode in and pushed a white helmet into Stiles' pyjama-clothed chest, who grasped at the slippy surface with sleep-weak fingers. Derek was peering around the room, his eyes travelling over the cobwebs in the join on wall and ceiling to the empty vase on the side table pushed against the wall and the blue telephone that sat there. The mesh screen behind him swung shut with a clatter and Stiles shoved the door closed.

"Wait here – Just right there." He said, and hurried back to his room where he promptly got his feet tangled back up in the mess he had left in his room.

It took him approximately four minutes to simultaneously get dressed, brush his teeth and wash his face – a new record, he would like to point out – and run back out to where Derek stood rigidly on the door mat staring at a photograph of Stiles' parent's wedding hung on the wall.

"Are we going?" Derek asked with a tone that certainly belied the fact that he was unimpressed.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry – last night I didn't get much sleep." Stiles explained, a little breathless, and wiped some residue from brushing his teeth from the corner of his lips with the back of his hand. Derek raised one eyebrow, and there was a slight trace of his smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as if there was something humorous about Stiles' predicament or phrasing.

"Let's get going." He said, "Don't want you to be late."

"Yeah, lets." Stiles said, and jammed the helmet on his head. It was tight fit, but at least it could get around his cranium and wasn't broken. He noticed that Derek's head was devoid of any protection other than his greased hair. "What about you?"

Derek gave a full out smirk and seemed to expand his already broad shoulders right before Stiles' eyes. "I don't plan on creaming my ride(2)." He said derisively.

Stiles stared at Derek for a moment thinking both simultaneously about how ignorant and fly(3) that statement was, and decided that it was best not to voice those thoughts because _angry Greaser_. "Okay." He eventually said in what must have been a rather anticlimactic way if the way Derek rolled his eyes, turned around, and opened the door was anything to judge by.

Outside was the same motorcycle that had given him the scare (and ride) of his life on Friday, looking both intimidating and innocent. Derek easily swung a leg around and mounted the monstrosity and waited for Stiles impatiently, who fiddled with locking the door before he clumsily sat on the end of the bike's seat and clenched his hands onto Derek's jacket. The engine kicked into live with a stomp of Derek's foot.

"You know you'll fall off if you don't hang on tight, right?" He called back over the steady roar.

"...Do I really have to?" Stiles called back – because there was something about the JAMF(4) image a bike gave that clinging onto the driver for your life negated.

"I don't know – do you want the road to give you a knuckle sandwich?"

Squashing his stubborn side, Stiles moved his hands to wrap around Derek's bulk and hold tight.

"Let's lay a patch(5)," Derek laughed, and that smirk was in his voice again. Stiles only had a second to suddenly force his grip tighter so all he could feel was thin t-shirt and hard muscle before they were off with a squeal of wheels on the tarmac and the awful but faint smell of burning rubber.

Stiles swore colourfully under his breath as he clung to dear life to the _maniac_ who was barrelling them down the suburb streets towards Beacon Hills High. He could feel Derek's heartbeat soaring, and hear his own load in his ears and throbbing against the padding of the helmet. They flew round a corner. Stiles was pretty sure that he had to be like crazy cool just for even getting on this thing. And surely if he died that would haul him up a few rungs on the popularity ladder – he was pretty sure he was less annoying when he was dead, so that would always be a given no matter how his life met its end – and maybe Lydia Martin would weep at his funeral and profess her undying love and _yeah that would be wonderful_ but how about he stays alive as long as he can, first.

Stiles' legs are clenched tightly to the motorcycle and his arms are wrapped with a vice-like grip around Derek's torso when they finally swerve into the school, cutting up a car that honked at them menacingly. People stopped and stared, but Stiles was too preoccupied with holding tight enough to Derek so as not to fly off when they finally came to a halt to notice. He let out a deep sigh of relief as soon as the world stopped flying by and quickly tore his hands away from Derek, tugging off the helmet and smoothing his hair back flat on his head. He would have to use some of Scott's grease to get it back into shape.

A hum of mutter broke out, audible just over the sound of the idling engine.

"I'll pick you back up at...?" Derek started, as he draped himself over the handlebars of his motorcycle.

"Oh! Uh, four. I have track tonight." Stiles said, and tried his best smile and he clambered off the seat and onto precious, unmoving ground. People were still staring, awestruck.

"Right. Four." Derek finally repeated, and then drove back to the entrance, cutting up yet another car that also beeped on his way out.

Stiles looked at the dispersing crowd huddled at the edged of the pavements. He caught a flash of strawberry blonde hair. Lydia.

_Oh_.

She had turned away, leaning on Jackson. But she had been watching. She had seen. This was good. This was _boss_.

A heavy hand on his shoulder broke him from his momentary bliss and caused him to stumble. Scott barged into his side.

"_Stiles_!" He said, almost as if he were a mother reprimanding her child. "What- When-"

Stiles gaped momentarily as he searched for some way to explain to his friend how exactly it was that he had managed to cruise into school on the back of a Harley, when the last time they had seen each other Stiles was cooing over his sick car. Then he decided it was best to dodge the questions and problems entirely. "Hey Scott," He smiled. "Good weekend?"

Scott scowled at him for a moment, then grabbed a fistful of his plain jacket and tugged him off towards the bicycle racks.

"Woah, chill out, Scott." Stiles yelped as he tripped over the curb and stumbled before he was released.

"Do you even know who that was?" Scott asked, pointing in the direction that Derek took off in.

"Yeah, he's a mechanic at the garage – the one that _you_ sent me too, might I add. Derek." Stiles replied, and folded his arms over his chest. So this was totally _not_ how he had seen his entrance to the school going.

"Yeah, Derek _Hale_, Stiles. I told you to go there because they were good and cheap, not because the mechanic is a delinquent with a motorcycle." Scott was fuming.

"What's the problem?" Stiles finally asked, completely confused as to why Scott was going ape like this. He threw his hands in the air just to burn some of the adrenaline that was suddenly there in him.

"You know he was kicked out of the school for vandalism and-and disruption and _owning that bike_, right?"

Stiles blanched, because _no_, he didn't know that. That was worrying.

"Well gee, Stiles, why you got to be so quick to trust." Scott slumped suddenly, his arms falling to his sides.

"Look, I just needed a way to get to and back from school. There's nothing wrong with that." Stiles said, but to his own ears it sounded like pitiful excuse.

"Well why didn't you ask me?" Scott asked, and oh, there were those wounded-puppy eyes and matching disappointed tone.

"It was late, you know? When I got back." Stiles said, and yeah, that one didn't stand up so well, either.

"Stiles," Scott laughed, "You've rung much later for much less."

A fleeting bubble of mirth rolled over Stiles as he remembered the strange, wonderful and sometimes inappropriate phone calls he and Scott had shared at all hours of the night and early morning.

"Yeah, well..." Stiles sighed heavily. He couldn't think of a good excuse that was anything but the harsh truth.

Scott looked at him expectantly.

After a long, drawn out moment of hesitation, Stiles finally blurted, "It's awkward to be a third wheel."

Judging from the look of surprise of Scott's face, that wasn't the reason he was expecting.

"I just..." Stiles continued, trying to find the right words for this, because no matter how much he talked in general words were never his strong point. Especially when it came to describing his feelings.

"It's okay." Scott said, and _oh thank God he was giving a way out_.

Stiles sighed with relief and smiled gratefully at Scott.

"I just don't want you to get kicked out for being involved with Hale, that's all."

"Yeah well...Did you see that Lydia was there?" Stiles asked, quickly changing the subject. "Because I think she was looking." A grin split across his face.

Scott shook his head and grinned back. "Sure, whatever." He said flippantly – but Stiles would forgive him his ignorance in the face of Lydia's beauty if only because he let them both avoid a conversation that would be messy and possibly end badly. "Let's get going before the bell goes for home class. Don't want Principle Argent getting all square on us for being late."

"You mean _you_ _and Allison_ don't want Principle Argent getting all square on you for being late." Stiles teased with a nudging elbow.

"Can it." Scott smirked.

Scott spent most of the day giving Stiles more attention than he had been given in the last month of their friendship, and to top it off Stiles was sure he saw Lydia's gaze linger on his a second more than usual in the cafeteria at lunch time. All in all it was a good day.

* * *

(*)- watch?v=Oy7xaNdeWZ0

1- Cherry - Original, non-tampered (nice) car.

2- Cream/Creaming/Creamed - despite sounding sexual, this just means to damage your vehicle.

3- Fly - Cool, _Pretty Fly For A White Guy_

4- JAMF - Jam Ass Mother Fucker. Yes, this existed. Used as a compliment here, but not always.

5- Lay a patch - start up so fact you burn rubber and leave a mark on the tarmac.

Please leave concrit?


	4. Chapter 3

Stiles' ride home was less gut-wrenchingly terrifying than the ride there, but still had him praising the Lord for the existence of solid ground by the end of it, when Stiles was left clutching at the overgrown bush in the front garden.

"Do you live alone?" Derek asked out of the blue, turning the engine off and sitting there.

"Uh, no? I mean – pa lives with me, but he's the Sheriff and so he has a lot of work to do, so he's usually at the station or down the clink. He even sleeps there sometimes, too. I try to get some meals to him but he's stubborn and I don't always have time." Stiles rambled, and kicked a pebble at his feet.

"Huh." Derek watched the stone skip over the pavement. Stiles had a feeling that Derek was disinterested, and that he was a complete square. It was an upsetting thought.

"Uh, do you...want to come in or something?" Stiles asked and gestured to the door with a flick of his thumb.

"You get lonely?" Derek asked, and smoothed the sides of his hair against his head with his palms.

"Uuhm, sometimes?" Stiles said, unsure, because this was kind of odd, actually, and why was Derek still here? "Why?"

Derek sat on his bike and stared at the pebble where it rested in the crack between two paving slabs. "No reason, really." Derek gave a short smile (well, more of a twitch at both corners of his mouth), and started the engine back up again. He nodded to the helmet in Stiles' hands. "Make sure you have that tomorrow morning. And make sure you're awake."

"Do you... I mean, yeah, sure, see you later, alligator." Stiles smiled and waved lazily as Derek began to ride up to the end of the street, and then zoomed back down to the main road in a flurry of leather, jeans, and hair grease. Stiles let his arm drop to his side and slap against his thigh before he turned and went to the front door. He had been going to ask if Derek gets lonely, but he was glad he had stopped before he had completed the question. Derek had a job, a bike, cool hair – he was a cat, and cats have friends. And even if he didn't Stiles shouldn't ask. He was trying to avoid creating anything negative between them, not purposefully create it. Especially when Derek was responsible for getting him to and from school. Especially on a motorbike. Especially when his car was in the garage.

The next morning, however (and thankfully Stiles was awake this morning because yeah, being late twice is not a good way to create a good bond with someone), Derek decided that Stiles was not going to have an easy time of it, and would have to ask the question whether he liked it or not.

Stiles was jamming that helmet on his head again, a tub of grease in his bag today to fix his hair after the ride, when Derek all but commanded Stiles to ask it. "That question you were going to ask yesterday before I left," He said, smoke streaming form his mouth and nostrils, "what was it?"

"What question?" Stiles asked, and it must have been unconvincing because Derek gave him a look that was intimidating and doubtful and a whole number of other things in one.

Stiles hesitated. Then, "I was going to ask if you get lonely. Too. If you also..." At this point he decided that staring at his fingers knotting together was the best survival tactic.

Derek crushed the cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. "Sometimes." He said, and was he mocking Stiles or being honest or what?

They stared at each other, assessing, for a long moment before Derek cockily jutted his jaw. "Let's go." He said, and yeah, that must mean that Derek did get lonely sometimes. There was something both comforting and horribly worrying about that. Who could be so cool and lonely at the same time.

Stiles climbed onto the back of the bike, the seat becoming more familiar each time he mounted it, and immediately wrapped himself around Derek for safety before they were off, arriving at the school to the same crowd as yesterday and to slightly less interested looks. Scott was waiting. Well, he was kissing Allison. But they were doing it outside, which meant that Stiles' arrival was accounted for at least in part.

"What time today?" Derek asked as Stiles slid himself off of the seat.

"Huh, oh, three." Stiles brushed himself down. Lydia wasn't to be seen today. A great shame.

"It's a date." Derek smirked, and revved out of the parking lot.

It took the school another day before it took any action.

Stiles was sitting in his History class on Wednesday when there was a knock at the door of the classroom and a student receptionist scampered into the room and to the teacher, Mrs Horton. They passed a slip of blue paper to her. The class, which had been bent over text books copying down notes on the American Civil War, watched as the wrinkly old woman – infamous for her grumbling over the length of girl's skirts and sleeves – pinched her spectacles to the tip of his drooping nose and squinted at the letter.

"Mr Stilinski," She finally said in a watery voice, "is to go to the Principals office immediately." She peered at him, seated in the middle of the class, and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Something was stuttering inside Stiles' chest and he sure as hell hopes it wasn't his heart. He couldn't see why he was getting called to Principal Argent's office. To face Argent was a terrifying prospect. He was a tense old man with a balding head and beady eyes, and it was rumoured around school that he once worked in the circus as a weight-lifter. His astoundingly tight grip almost confirmed that. If you weren't afraid of his appearance and strength then you had to be afraid of his personality, and his word-weaving. Stiles himself feared both. He hurriedly shoved his books and pencil into his bag. He didn't see how Scott could risk going steady with Argent's granddaughter. He must treat her really right.

"Those are to be copied up in ink, Mr Stilinski. No exceptions." Mr Horton said as she handed him the paper and watched as he nervously followed the receptionist out into the corridor. She was a gaunt girl in his year named – what was it again? - Erica Reyes. Stiles kept his eyes on the back of her head, covered in a frizzy mane of blonde hair that was dropping out of its curls. She was a taboo figure in the school for the mere reason that she was epileptic, and that her looks didn't make up for it in the eyes of three hundred or so teenagers. As it was, Stiles barely noticed her, and felt awkward just following her to the principal's office, even though he considered himself a rather open-minded guy.

They shuffled together down a staircase, through large swinging doors, and into the reception area. Erica scurried back to her small desk. The principal's office door was unmissable and dark against the white wall. Stiles approached it cautiously with the blue slip crumpled in his hand. He softly knocked on the wood of the door twice, wetting his lips and trying to keep his nerves from leaping into his throat.

"Enter."

Stiles pushed the door open a crack, and peered in to see the balding head of Principal Argent bent down over paper, a fountain pen in hand scribbling his signature on a dotted red line. Stiles slipped through the door, got his bag caught in the gap, and eventually managed to tug himself out and into the room with a loud scuffing sound and a less-than-gentle shutting of the door. Argent breathed hard and heavy through his nose.

"Sit." He motioned vaguely to the chair parked in front of the desk. The leather squeaked horribly as Stiles obeyed the order, and slid back. Argent carefully finished signing his papers before putting his pen in a holder, folding his hands, and looking squarely at Stiles, his jaw clenched and strong and his old, wrinkly eyes cold and hard.

"Mr Stilinski..." He said, and Stiles swallowed, tugging nervously at the leg of his slacks so they weren't uncomfortably bunched. "Russian?" It was an oft asked question, now.

"My gr-" Stiles paused to clear his throat as his voice broke and squeaked, "My grandfather was, but he left Russia around the revolution because uh, because he didn't want to be a Red."

Argent nodded sagely. "Good on him." He finally said, and then stood up out of his seat and began to pace around his desk. "I suppose you know why you're here, Stilinski."

Stiles decided that right now the best thing he could possibly do was keep his mouth shut. Argent was leaving his line of sight, and something about craning his neck to follow him seemed foolish. In truth, he had no firm idea of why he was there. He was just hoping it wasn't something bad.

"It's a strange time, nowadays. You teenagers rocking and rolling and...existing." Argent was behind him now, and his footsteps stopped. The hairs on the back of Stiles' neck prickled, and he was hyper-aware that there was a presence he couldn't see. A heavy, strong hand clapped onto his shoulder and Stiles jumped, staring at it from the corner of his eyes like it were some great big spider sitting there. Argent's blunt fingers pressed hard enough to bruise into the soft flesh beneath his shoulder bone. "I suppose that as the Sheriff's son you know about the recent surge in crime by your lot."

"Uh," Stiles started. Strictly speaking he wasn't meant to know half of what he did, but the only crimes committed by high school kids were loitering and heckling as far as he knew. He drew a blank on how to respond.

"And that's why it surprised me, Stilinski, that you should be one to advocate this type of behaviour." The momentary relief Stiles had felt at not having to reply was swept away by a deeply chilling wind. He froze, not even relaxing as Argent's hand slithered off his shoulder and the Principal came back into view, standing behind his desk.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, sir." Stiles all but whispered.

"Transport." Argent barked, eyes wide. Dread buzzed in Stiles' gut like angry wasps. "It is a clearly stated school rules that _motorcycles_," Argent spat out the word like it had offended him personally, "are not permitted on the premises."

Scott's words swam in his head. _'You know he was kicked out of the school for vandalism and-and disruption and_ owning that bike_, right?' _The wasps dived into a great black hole that had appeared around his naval. Stiles gazed unblinkingly at Principal Argent's face, who stared back with wide eyes.

There was a long pause. The school bell rang outside, muffled by the door.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Argent finally asked, recomposing his face into something much more dignified and a lot less terrifying.

"It won't happen again sir." Stiles blurted, and almost crossed his fingers as he wished to be let off.

"Make sure it doesn't." Argent muttered quietly. There were students rushing past the doors now. "Go."

Stiles scarpered to his feet, hand snatching at the straps of his bag as he went, and sidled quickly out of the room, tripping over his own feet as he tugged the door open, and let it close behind him. He was buffeted by a group of guys as they walked past, Jackson in the lead. After a second of standing lamely in the middle of the corridor something snapped in Stiles' mind and he hurried off after Jackson and his cronies for their gym class.

When the day is over, Stiles barely had a moment to shout a garbled excuse at Scott before he was speeding out of the school and to the edge of the grounds to flag down Derek before he went into the car park and got them both into more trouble that Stiles wanted or needed. He was still catching his breath when the roar of an engine cut through the common hubbub of the end of school. Stiles waved his arms in the air madly as Derek speeded past, swerved to not go into the car park, and braked hard on the road. A car honked its horn loudly. Stiles felt relieved and sprinted, exhausted, to Derek's side. There was a rank smell of burning rubber.

When he was level he bent over, hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. The stitch in his side he had developed during gym class was back and just as painful as it had been. He waved a hand, trying to gesture that he would explain in a moment. As he did so, he caught a look at Derek's face. It was livid. Stiles stopped panting at once.

"Get on."

Stiles didn't need telling twice. He barely managed to slam his helmet on and wrap his arms securely around Derek's torso before they were speeding, turning, and then whizzing at breakneck speed down the road. They missed the turn they would usually make for Stiles' house.

_He's going to kill me_. Stiles thought, terrified. _He's going to take me into the woods and kill me._

They drove for what must have been another minute, turned, and Stiles saw it. The edge of the wood, looming in front of them. They would never find his body. But they were slowing fast as they drove down the street, and then at the last minute they turned to the right, and Derek stopped in front of a familiar building. The shell of a car sat on bricks. A pick up truck was parked clunkily by the road. Peeling blue paint on a sign sitting over their heads read '_Deaton's Car Doctor's_'. Stiles wasn't going to die.

* * *

I've been busy.


End file.
